Chapter 18: The Reception of Enemies

RAYÉN

The screech of tires cut through the dark cabin of the armored SUV, snapping the tension in the air like a dry bone.

My heart slammed against my ribs so violently I thought it would break them, but the sudden burst of automatic gunfire I was bracing for never came.

Outside, the convoy hadn’t been broadsided by a hit squad. It had simply come to a sudden, coordinated halt before the massive iron gates of the Errázuriz estate high in Las Condes.

The security detail was locking down the perimeter.

I sat frozen on the leather seat, my chest heaving, the blood rushing in my ears so loudly that the silence inside the vehicle was deafening.

Lautaro didn’t move an inch.

He remained seated beside me, his long legs relaxed, one hand resting casually on his knee while his amber eyes tracked every micro-expression crossing my face.

He hadn’t panicked.

He hadn’t pulled a gun.

He had simply revealed his hand telling me he knew about the razor pressing against my ribs and watched me break.

“You’re quiet, mi rosa,” Lautaro said softly, his deep voice carrying a dark thread of amusement that made my skin prickle.

“You knew,” I managed to force out, the words raw as they dragged up my throat. My fingers buried themselves in the thick lace of my gown to hide their trembling. “You let me walk down that aisle… knowing I meant to slit your throat.”

“I let you bring your blade because I wanted to see if you had the spine to use it,” he replied, turning his head to look at me fully. The dark interior shadowed the harsh angles of his face, making him look more like a shadow than a man. “And to see who put it in your hand.”

Before I could demand what he meant about Beltrán, the heavy car door was pulled open from the outside.

Crisp, freezing mountain air flooded the cabin, carrying with it the distant sound of classical strings, clinking glasses, and the quiet murmurs of Santiago’s criminal elite.

We had arrived at the wedding reception.

Lautaro stepped out first, unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket with unhurried grace. He turned back, extending his scarred hand to me once more.

The black signet ring on his finger caught the soft lantern light of the courtyard.

I stared at his palm.

Every line on it felt like a trap.

But with fifty armed men lining the perimeter and half the city’s underground waiting inside, I had no choice.

I placed my gloved hand in his.

His grip closed around my warm, steady, anchoring and pulled me smoothly out of the vehicle.

The grand ballroom of the estate was a masterpiece of cold, opulent arrogance.

Glass walls showcased the glowing, sprawling city of Santiago below, while heavy crystal chandeliers illuminated hundreds of guests dressed in silk and velvet.

But beneath the smell of expensive champagne and roasted meats was the unmistakable, suffocating stench of a war zone held in a temporary freeze.

On one side of the room stood the surviving capos of the Altiplano, their faces sour, their hands hovering near their jackets.

On the other stood the Errázuriz syndicate, watching my people like meat waiting for the butcher.

The moment Lautaro walked me through the tall, arched doorways, the hum of conversation died completely.

Every eye turned to us.

I held my head high, forcing my spine into a rigid line, refusing to let them see the terror clawing at my chest or the razor burning against my side.

Lautaro kept his arm locked around my waist, his broad hand resting heavily on the curve of my hip.

The heat of his palm burned straight through the silk, a constant, possessive reminder of the vows we had just exchanged.

“Don Lautaro,” a smooth, raspy voice called from the crowd.

Mateo Subercaseaux, the ruthless leader of the northern coastal routes and a longtime rival to both our families, stepped forward.

He held a crystal flute of champagne, his graying hair slicked back, a thin, patronizing smile playing on his lips.

“A beautiful ceremony,” Mateo said, though his sharp eyes swept over me like a buyer inspecting cattle. “Though some of us wondered if the daughter of the Altiplano would make it to the altar without a leash. She comes from violent blood, Lautaro. Wild stock.”

A quiet, tense ripple passed through the surrounding mob bosses.

Mateo was testing him.

Testing us.

My jaw clenched, venom rising in my throat, but before I could speak, Lautaro’s grip on my waist tightened just enough to hold me back.

He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t reach for a weapon.

He simply stepped slightly in front of me, placing half his broad frame between Mateo and me.

“She doesn’t need a leash, Mateo,” Lautaro said, his tone smooth, dripping with an understated lethality that made the air in the room drop ten degrees. “She is an Errázuriz now.”

Mateo’s smile wavered slightly.

“An Errázuriz by paper, perhaps. But blood doesn’t wash out so easily. There are men in this room who lost brothers to her father’s war. They might feel… inclined to settle old accounts while she is away from her estate.”

The threat was clear.

It was an invitation for open season on me the moment Lautaro looked away.

Lautaro took a slow step forward, drawing me gently with him.

He didn’t look into Mateo’s eyes.

He looked at his throat.

“Then let me make the rules of this marriage very clear to everyone in this room,” Lautaro said, his baritone carrying effortlessly across the silent ballroom.

He raised his hand, resting his knuckles gently against the side of my neck, his thumb stroking my pulse point where my heart was hammering frantically.

“Rayén is my wife. Her blood is my blood. Her life is bound to mine.”

He slowly turned his gaze around the room, locking eyes with every faction leader watching us.

“If anyone so much as looks at her with ambition in their eyes,” Lautaro continued, his voice dropping into a pitch-black promise, “I will not just kill you. I will erase your family name from Santiago, dig up your ancestors, and feed what’s left to the street dogs. Is that clear enough for you, Mateo?”

Mateo swallowed, his throat moving nervously as he took a half-step back.

“Crystal, Don Lautaro.”

“Good. Enjoy the wine.”

Lautaro turned back to me, ignoring the stunned silence of the room.

He guided me away from the center of the floor, steering me toward a quiet, shadowed alcove near the grand balcony overlooking the courtyard below.

The moment we were hidden behind the heavy velvet drapes, out of sight of the guests, I yanked myself out of his grip.

“What was that?” I hissed, my chest rising and falling rapidly. “You talk about protecting me, but you trapped me! You told me Beltrán bought this blade.why would he do that? He was my father’s most loyal adviser!”

Lautaro didn’t answer right away.

He calmly took two glasses of dark wine from a passing waiter’s tray, setting one down on a small marble table beside us.

He turned to me, his amber eyes completely devoid of the warmth he’d faked in front of the crowd.

“Beltrán didn’t buy it to help you avenge your brother, Rayén,” Lautaro whispered, leaning in so close I could feel the heat of his breath against my forehead. “He bought it from an Errázuriz weapons dealer three days ago. He gave you that blade knowing my security would trace the steel back to his purchase.”

My breath hitched.

My mind stumbled over the words.

“No… no, that doesn’t make sense”

“He didn’t give you a weapon, mi rosa,” Lautaro said softly, his fingers reaching out to gently trace the high line of my cheekbone, his touch maddeningly light. “He gave you a suicide note. He wanted you to try to kill me on our wedding night so my men would execute you on the spot, leaving him to take total control of the Altiplano remnants.”

A cold, nauseating horror pooled in the pit of my stomach.

Beltrán?

The man who raised me?

“You’re lying,” I choked out, a tear finally breaking free and slipping down my cheek. “You’re trying to turn me against the only family I have left.”

“Am I?”

Lautaro reached inside his tuxedo breast pocket and pulled out a heavy, folded piece of paper.

He didn’t hand it to me.

He held it just out of reach.

“This is the ballistics report from the morning your brother died.”

My heart stopped.

“You think I executed Aconcagua,” Lautaro whispered, his face inches from mine, his eyes dark with a truth that threatened to shatter my entire world.

“Read the report, Rayén.

The bullet that put your brother in the ground… didn’t come from an Errázuriz gun.”